


Waking Next to You

by sc010f



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-25
Updated: 2012-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-31 17:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sc010f/pseuds/sc010f
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he wakes up, no power in the universe can get him to go back to sleep. Except, possibly, John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waking Next to You

When Sherlock sleeps, he's usually dead to the world, but when he wakes up, no matter how long he's been asleep, he's awake and there's no getting him to go back to sleep. 

His mother tried to lock him in his room to keep him (at the age of three) from sneaking out of the house to play on the play set in the back garden. It worked for about two weeks until ten-year-old Mycroft decided that he needed to hone his lock picking skills. At that point, Mrs Holmes decided to give it up as a lost cause and installed monitoring systems in all points of the house and garden. Her neighbors thought it paranoid. Her elder son thought it genius. Sherlock thought it was _predictable_.

So now when he jerks awake at a quarter to five in the morning, he knows there's no way he can go back to sleep. Which would, under normal circumstances, especially right after a case, be the first slip into that black whirlwind of boredom and atrophy. Except, these are anything but normal circumstances. Mostly because he's been awakened by the weight of John on his chest. 

John. John who, when he's having a "bad night" will wake up if Sherlock so much as even closes the door to the refrigerator too loudly, but when he has "good nights", then Sherlock could blow up the entire block and John would sleep right through it. It would appear from this arrangement, that John's having one of his "good" nights. 

They've not shared a bed before tonight, not had that luxury until now, with the inn overbooked and Lestrade insisting that he get a room to himself and upon reflection, Sherlock sees the benefits of sleeping, actually sleeping, with the person you've just spent a decent portion of the night shagging. 

There's light seeping in from around the curtains, the yellow lamplight from outside and in it, he can see that John's wrapped around him as if Sherlock was some sort of oversized teddy-bear, nuzzling at his neck as Sherlock shifts slightly to try and relieve some of the pressure on his left arm which seems to have gone to sleep. John snuffles and follows Sherlock's movement, tucking himself closer into him with a contented smile. 

It's then that Sherlock notices the wet spot on his shoulder from where John has spent a good number of hours assiduously drooling on him. Sherlock wonders if he could get a sample without waking John – the condoms are… oh, bother, lubricated. If they'd been un-lubricated it would have been possible. Sherlock sighs and gives up the idea. If he wants John's saliva, he'll have to get it some other way. 

Sherlock shifts again and the duvet slides down a bit, bringing a gentle rush of cool air to their heated bodies. Looking down he can see the mark, a reddish, fading-to-purple bruise from where he'd sunk his teeth into John's hip bone last night, licking and sucking and biting and caressing until John had groaned out his name and told him to "bloody well get on with it." Further inspection reveals a trace of come on the upper portion of John's chest – a missed spot, apparently from when they'd made a half-hearted attempt to clean up. With his free hand, Sherlock reaches over and traces the now dry trail up to where it ends at John's collarbone. 

And in terms of aesthetics, it is a very nice collarbone, too. Sherlock makes a note to apply the same treatment to John's collarbone as he'd done to his hip. Marking him. Telling anyone, any _woman_ who might come sniffing around that Dr John Hamish Watson was _his_. It would be good, he reflects, to have John return the favor one of these days. Just for the sake of consistency. 

John snuffles again and opens his eyes. 

"Wha-time?" he asks, looking up at Sherlock and giving him a good waft of morning breath.

Sherlock turns, squints at the bedside clock.

"Just six," he whispers. "Go back to sleep."

"You g'na be ok?" John asks. "Um on you… an…"

"It's fine," Sherlock murmurs. "Go back to sleep."

John shifts his weight off of him and curls up on his side, pulling Sherlock along with him.

"Spooning, John?" Sherlock asks. "How romantic."

"Shuddup. Sleep," is John's only reply.   
Sherlock sighs, curls up behind him and reaches his arm around. 

John is warm.

John is soft.

John is slightly smelly from the exertions on the moor and the sex and his general _John-ness_.

Sherlock feels sleep creeping up upon him again, his eyelids growing heavy, his limbs suffused with lassitude. 

"G'night, Sherlock," John mutters.

Sherlock opens his mouth to argue that it's not night, it's morning, but the words never make it out.

Sleep overtakes him. Finally.

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine, no money.


End file.
